


leave marks on my skin (and ashes in my heart)

by actionpackedlips



Series: your gun to my head (my heart in your hands) [3]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Dom Deadpool, Daddy Kink, Dark Wade Wilson, Dom Wade Wilson, Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rooftop Sex, Sadism, Size Difference, Smoking, Sub Peter Parker, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actionpackedlips/pseuds/actionpackedlips
Summary: Peter hadn't known Deadpool smoked.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Spider-Man/Deadpool
Series: your gun to my head (my heart in your hands) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753558
Comments: 16
Kudos: 346





	leave marks on my skin (and ashes in my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another installment of what I like to call 'Dark Dom Daddy Deadpool'! 
> 
> I spent so much time writing this, looking at it, revising it, that I am so, so happy to be releasing it into the world for people (other than me) to enjoy. I tried to tag all the major elements featured in this story, but if I missed anything please feel free to let me know and I'll gladly tag for it.
> 
> **This story takes place _before_ 'bury me face down (in your heart)' but _after_ 'watch me burn (from your touch)'.**
> 
> A GIANT _thank you_ to both [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe) and [cheekysstyles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekysstyles/pseuds/cheekysstyles) for helping me polish this story up to a high shine. I appreciate it so much, you have no idea!
> 
> Without further ado, happy reading, and let me know what you think of these kinky two!
> 
> 🖤

Peter was attempting to focus on what Deadpool was saying, really. He knew it was important that he listen. Important that he figure out why the mercenary had come slinking back into town. That he sort out what that meant for his city.

But Deadpool had his mask pushed halfway up, something he never did unless they were kissing, and the curl of smoke over the curve of his lips was hypnotic. 

He hadn’t known Deadpool smoked.

“—so in the end, my appointment ended up getting pushed back. Just my fuckin’ luck, right? As if I’ve got the fuckin’ time to be waiting on my accountant because his goddamn grammy died. I die plenty and you don’t see the world stopping for me. My schedule’s already tight as it is, bad guys ain’t gonna kill thems—”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Peter’s treacherous mouth interrupted, the words he’d been holding back so well just... slipping out.

He should care more about why Deadpool was in New York. There was a tiny, rational part of his brain that was _not_ offline from watching Deadpool smoke enticingly up against the ledge of the building, and it screamed at him to _pay attention,_ and _keep his guard up._ Deadpool wasn’t even making him work for it—the second Peter’s boots had hit the roof he’d launched into a long-winded attempt at explaining his presence (and its _un_ relation to killing). But the moment he’d rolled up his mask, Peter’s focus had waned.

He’d continued explaining as he held the cigarette in between his pursed, scarred lips, thumb sparking the lighter’s flint as the other hand cupped to protect the flame from wind. The lighter had disappeared back into one of his many pouches, and the cherry glowed bright as Deadpool sucked in deeply, hand coming back up to grasp it between covered fingers as he exhaled smoke out of the side of his mouth. 

Peter hadn’t heard a word since. 

Deadpool, ever perceptive, paused his rambling rant at Peter’s non sequitur. 

His eyes narrowed speculatively as he casually said, “What doesn’t kill me, right?” His tongue came out to swipe at his dry lips before inhaling from the cigarette again. This time he barely exhaled at all, mouth parting slightly, and Peter watched the smoke rise in a slow dance out from between glistening lips. “And that’s pretty much everything, so…” Deadpool remarked after the smoke had dissipated, shrugging his gigantic shoulders as if smoking was the least of his worries. 

Peter gulped, mouth dry, and he licked at his own parched lips while zoning in on Deadpool’s. He wasn’t sure why his heart was starting to race, or why the blood in his veins felt like water that had been left to slowly boil. He’d seen plenty of people smoke before. Found it abhorrent, even.

“Seein’ something you like, Spidey?” Deadpool’s voice teased. He already knew the answer. 

Of course he did. He knew exactly what he did to Peter just by being in his presence. Just by being in the same damn city. 

Peter knew his excuses were getting weaker and weaker each time he sought Deadpool out. It wasn’t about keeping an eye on him, or keeping New York safe. More and more, it was about the way Deadpool made him feel.

Peter shook his head, both at Deadpool’s question and his own painfully truthful thoughts. He kept them locked up tight in the safety of his own head, fearful of ever saying them out loud. It would make them real, giving them a voice, and he never wanted Deadpool to know just how much pull he really had over Spider-Man.

“Liar,” Deadpool purred and pushed off the ledge, cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth as he casually sauntered over to Peter. 

As he continued closer, the pungent smell of the cigarette grew stronger. It made Peter’s nose twitch, turned his stomach a little, but something about seeing Deadpool smoke was making him want to reach out and close the distance between them, despite it overpowering his senses. He itched to wrap a hand around the back of that broad neck and _pull_ , pressing needy kisses into lips wrapped around a burning cigarette. 

The urge overwhelmed Peter, and it didn’t help that Deadpool didn’t have a speck of blood on him, smelling fresh and clean; like he’d gotten freshened up just to find Peter. That thought made something deep in his stomach tighten, and he couldn’t stop his fingers from reaching out to brush the outline of Deadpool’s abs through leather questioningly.

He never grabbed for Deadpool. No, he’d learned that the other man didn’t appreciate that. He had to ask for permission, first. Not always verbally, but in little touches that let Deadpool know he was eager and interested.

It was always about what _Deadpool_ was willing to give him.

He never seemed to realize just how much Peter gave of himself in return.

Deadpool extracted the cigarette from his mouth, offering it to Peter in the space between them. Peter turned it down with a small shake of his head.

He wasn’t interested in smoking it. Although... he wasn’t entirely sure _what_ he was interested in as he eyed it up, watching it burn. He just knew there was an allure that tugged at him each time he watched Deadpool inhale. Something in him wanted to reach out for more, despite not knowing what that _more_ was.

Deadpool shrugged, unbothered by his refusal, and took another drag before flicking the ashes off the end.

Peter’s eyes followed them as they floated away; in doing so, he missed the intrigued look that flickered across Deadpool’s face.

“Web the door, Webs,” Deadpool’s deep voice directed suddenly in a commanding tone that made it clear he wasn’t suggesting.

There was a reason they both liked meeting on this particular rooftop.

It was used by whoever lived in the building as a lounge area, it seemed. They had a seen-better-days couch laid out on top of a worn rug, with a few end tables and decorations strewn about. There was a beer pong table off to one side (complete with several left-behind beer cans, long forgotten). Whoever had played exterior decorator had finagled some red string lights up, and the light cast odd shadows along the open space, plunging everything else into a deep red and causing it to look more sinister than it felt.

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the door that served as access to the rooftop. They’d never seen anyone up here before, but that could always change. Since the first time they’d stumbled across this rooftop, Peter had always made sure to web up the door before they started doing… whatever it was that they were doing together.

Peter didn’t have a name to put to it. Nothing seemed to fit or feel right, and he wasn’t even really sure what they did _had_ a name, to be honest. He was too scared to look it up, afraid to find out he was more messed up than he thought. Plus, Peter couldn’t imagine there was a subreddit for questioning superheroes hooking up with murderous mercenaries. 

He glanced back to Deadpool. He somehow hadn’t realized that’s where this was going, too distracted by the smoke… even though his arousal had spiked just from seeing Deadpool leaning back along the ledge, casual, as if he’d been waiting for Peter. Peter’s interest spiked dizzyingly, and Deadpool leered at him past the cigarette he had in his mouth. He didn’t like to be kept waiting after he’d issued a command.

Peter gulped and cursed the part of him that was naive enough to think he and Deadpool could be in the same space anymore without this transpiring. They were like two magnets, polarized and drawn to one another, inevitable to the tantalizing press of their bodies together once their paths crossed.

He dutifully webbed up the door so that no one could interrupt them, hoping he hadn’t ruined anyone's plans for a rooftop party this evening. Peter felt guilt twinge deep in his stomach for what they were about to do in this space; for what they had _already_ done in their prior visits. 

As if reading Peter’s mind, Deadpool’s predatory grin grew wider. He walked past Peter to the worn, red couch and leaned back languidly. The lit cigarette dangled in his hand as he stretched his right arm along the back of the sofa to get comfortable. His spread thighs beckoned, but Peter was afraid to step forward without explicit permission. 

Sometimes he wasn’t sure what to do once they’d gotten started, both eager and reluctant for whatever Deadpool had planned; his head was usually a messy jumble of indecision between his thoughts of ‘ _this is wrong_ ’ and ‘ _it feels so right.’_ This wasn’t one of those times, however, and when Deadpool lifted his other hand to pat his thigh Peter was nearly there before it could make contact.

He stood hesitant in front of Deadpool for a moment. The other man nodded down to his lap in a clear order to sit. Peter took a breath to clear his head, but instead it filled with the smoke that curled in the air and he all but fell into Deadpool’s waiting lap. 

Deadpool chuckled, hand running up Peter’s thigh to make its way to the dip of his waist and squeezing. “Eager little thing tonight, aren’t you?”

Peter blushed hotly behind his mask, thankful for its cover. Deadpool loved to see him blush, loved it even more when he cried. Peter wasn’t sure what it meant that he _liked_ causing those reactions in Deadpool. He could find out, he supposed, if he wanted to; a slew of therapy sessions later with money he didn’t have. 

Sitting in Deadpool’s lap, though, felt like it’s own form of therapy. The buzzing that had been in Peter’s head all day was dying down to a manageable hum, without them even having done anything yet. The incessant reminder that he was but a lowly, poor college boy, that he was hanging by a thread, drifted away like old webs disintegrating into the wind. No, here in Deadpool’s lap there was only one thing to worry about:

What his Daddy wanted. 

It said a lot for his current headspace that the shameful thought came easy, and he felt his tense shoulders relax as Deadpool pet at his side. He sighed audibly. 

Deadpool was still smirking.

“That all you need Spidey, just this?” His tone didn’t match his reassuring words; rather, it hinted at the edge of mocking, as if it was funny to him that just sitting in Deadpool’s lap was helping Peter. Like he took a sick, mean pleasure in the knowledge that it still wasn’t enough, no, but rather just the start. 

He was right. It helped, but it wasn’t nearly enough. 

Peter hung his head. He couldn’t meet the whites of the masked eyes in front of him as he shook his head. 

“Mmm, that’s what I thought.” The hand resting along the back of the couch bent so Deadpool could turn his head and take a puff off his still-burning cigarette. Peter's eyes followed the movement. 

Deadpool turned his head and a wave of smoke obscured Peter’s vision through his lenses for a moment. 

“So…” Deadpool spoke, and Peter focused on the way his lips seemed to curl into a smirk around the words, “if you’re not interested in smoking it, and you don’t seem content to watch _me_ smoke, what else could you need, hm?” The teasing tone of his voice told Peter that he knew exactly what that was, but was having fun playing this little guessing game.

What else, indeed? Peter wasn’t sure what he was looking for, what the itch beneath his skin meant, but he knew Deadpool would figure it out and find a way to give it to him. There were times Peter was genuinely scared of just what it might be, scared that it might be the day when it would be enough to push him into saying enough was enough, and finally using their safeword. It had taken them a while, but as each encounter between them grew hotter, heavier, and brutally _more_ , they’d made one. Or rather, Deadpool had made one, and told Peter what it was. The only problem was that, now that they had a word that would stop it all, Peter was afraid to use it.

He was afraid that once he safeworded out, it would be the end of this. Deadpool would grow bored of Peter’s limits, of his inability to take what he dished out. Deadpool would _leave._ And Peter wasn’t ready for it all to end. 

And that knowledge scared him more than all the rest.

“I don’t know.” Pete answered him honestly, because he’d been asked a question, and Peter had learned the hard way that Deadpool didn’t like it when his questions went unanswered.

Deadpool hummed, and he flicked the growing ashes off his cigarette.

“Well, we better decide what that is soon. This cigarette doesn't have much life left to it.”

Peter glanced at the cigarette nervously. It had burned down between Deadpool puffing at it, and long minutes ignored between his fingers. Peter wasn’t sure why that made him anxious, but it did. He glanced back at Deadpool and the other man huffed out a laugh at Peter’s reaction.

“Shirt off.”

It went without saying that his mask stayed on. Peter had a few different suit designs now, thanks to a few brainstorming sessions with Tony Stark. Tony hadn’t understood why Peter had come to him wishing for a design that made the suit easy to slip off in pieces. It was too much like Peter’s first homemade design, he’d said, and Stark Industries _never_ went backwards. So instead they’d engineered a polymer within the suit that held it together completely, until a particular piece of clothing needed to come off (controlled of course, by either Peter or Karen).

Peter went to type in the code, but was halted by a nudge from Deadpool’s unoccupied hand. Peter’s fingers slid from the slim screen hidden at the inside of his wrist at the same time his eyes slid to meet Deadpool’s stare.

Deadpool only shook his head, cigarette hovering near his lips as the smoke curled up, up, up and away. Watching it created a deeper itch in Peter and he released a frustrated noise. He’d just been trying to follow orders. He hated when Deadpool played these infuriating games.

  
“Not you,” was all he told Peter. 

Peter was already warm within his suit thanks to sitting in Deadpool’s lap, but as he realized just what the other man meant he felt his blush spread; hot humiliation sparked in the center of his chest and spread through his limbs like wildfire. His fingers twitched defiantly, but they didn’t glide over the screen like he wished they would. Instead, he hung his head and inhaled, sharp and embarrassed, voice low as he called out, “Karen?”

“Yes, Peter?” Her gentle, familiar voice only made it worse. He’d turned her recording services off, of course—as he always did when he was with Deadpool—but hearing her voice just reminded him that she was there. Listening. Processing. He had no doubt she was judging his current position, considering she was a product of Tony (and Tony couldn’t _stand_ Deadpool).

“Would you—”

“Tell her to take it off,” Deadpool ordered, near-gleefully, “in a _sexy_ voice,” and the waggle of his eyebrows was easily visible through the half of his mask he still wore. 

Peter scowled. Karen may be an AI, but she was practically his coworker. He even sometimes considered her a friend, ever since those lonely first years of learning and becoming Spider-Man. 

“I can’t—”

Deadpool shifted, perking up like he’d heard something. “You hear that? I think my accountant’s calling, I might have to go into that very important meeting after all.”

It was way past midnight. Peter may have been a broke college student with no need for an accountant to watch over his meager amount of dollars, but he was pretty confident they weren’t open for late night meetings. Even for billionaire mercenaries with skewed moral codes.

Bastard.

Peter clenched his teeth behind the mask and forced out, “Karen, take my shirt off.”

“Don’t be rude, Spider-Man,” Deadpool chastised in a murmur, leaning over to place a rough bite on his collarbone through his suit as a large hand ran up the outside of his thigh. It stung in the best way.

“Please,” he whimpered out, unsure just who he was talking to. 

“Of course, Peter,” Karen answered and he felt the material loosen around his neck and waist so he could easily lift it off. 

A dangerous, scarred smile and then, “ _Good boy_.” 

Peter shivered as he gripped the material at the bottom of his navel, tugging it smoothly up and over his masked face. He made sure to throw it far enough aside that it wouldn’t be in the range of whatever they were about to get up too. Deadpool did have a tendency to get enthusiastically messy whenever they were together.

So there Peter sat in his mask, in Deadpool’s lap, nude from the waist up. It was the most exposed he’d been in Deadpool’s presence in a while. They rarely had the time to indulge in luxuries like exposed skin. For one, Deadpool never took his own suit off. And if Peter were being honest, this might be the first time that anger wasn’t burning possessive and bright-hot through his veins, making everything fast and frenzied.

It felt… different. There was still a warmth in his blood, curling low in his belly, but it had nothing to do with anger. Deadpool was in the city for personal reasons this time, “ _for realsies!”_ or so he’d insisted at Peter’s skepticism. So, could Peter really be mad at him? Deadpool’s suit was immaculate and, he noticed now that he was up close and personal, far more devoid of weapons than normal. 

Leather clad fingers trailed up to wrap possessively around his bare hip, and Deadpool’s thumb swiped absentmindedly across the jut of his hipbone as he looked his fill at the exposed skin before him. 

There wasn’t much of a moon tonight, overcast clouds making it darker than usual, but the red lights strung up did a fine job at pitching enough light for them to see, and Peter blushed as Deadpool licked his lips as he continued to stare. 

“You’re like a damn present wrapped up for me in that suit,” Deadpool murmured under his breath, as if to himself. “Always forget how damn pretty you are underneath it.” 

Before Peter could argue that he wasn’t _pretty—_ and how would Deadpool even know that without seeing his face?—Deadpool was leaning over to bite at a nipple, the sting causing Peter to gasp and bring his hands up to fist reflexively at Deadpool’s shoulders, one hand slipping unknowingly to wrap around the back of his neck to keep him there.

Peter loved the sting of Deadpool’s bites, and the soothing licks and kisses he’d bestow before moving on to another vulnerable part of Peter’s skin. Peter didn’t bruise long, but sometimes when they were done, after they’d parted ways, he would sit at home and poke at them until they faded; stuck between cursing himself for letting Deadpool touch him, _mark_ him, and fighting the urge to go out and look for him so he could ask him to do it _again._

Deadpool growled against his chest unhappily at the strength Peter was unconsciously using to keep him there, and used the hand _not_ creeping towards Peter’s hardening dick to remind him just who was in charge, pushing him back with controlled strength. 

“Watch yourself,” he warned sharply. 

Peter pulled back, realizing what he’d done, then gasped in shock as a sharp bite of pain shot through his arm, fading into a dull throb. His grip slackened and Deadpool lounged back against the couch.

“Oopsie,” Deadpool said glibly, as he moved the burning cigarette farther away with an outstretched arm. He brought his other hand up to grasp at Peter, fingers nearly wrapping fully around his forearm, turning it so he could inspect.

Sure enough, a red mark was swelling up where the hot end of the cigarette had brushed along the soft part of his underarm. The smell made Peter crinkle his nose, but he couldn’t stop looking at the mar the burn made along his skin. It was more surprise than hurt—a kiss, not a blow. His body was already starting to repair the damage. He brought a hesitant finger to it, pressing down, and bit his lip at the soft echo of pain. Something in Peter loosened, something he hadn’t even realized was tight, unraveling like yarn from where it had been balled up inside him. 

Peter only looked back up once the mark had started to fade, once his questing fingers could no longer draw out even a whisper of pain. Deadpool’s eyes weren’t on Peter’s arm; they were instead fixated on his face, drinking in his unmistakeably enthralled reaction. Peter flushed at the look, and cursed as he felt the blush spread down his exposed chest, because even with a halfway covered face Peter recognized the clear glint in the other man’s eyes. 

Deadpool looked _hungry_. 

_Ravenous_ , even. 

For him. 

Peter’s breath stuttered at the look, and words caught at the back of his throat.

 _Daddy_ and _Please._

There was a want crawling under his skin like ants, but he didn’t have the words for it even if he knew what it was. He’d never done anything like this before, had never _asked_ for it, had never known he could. Sometimes he wished he had the courage to take his mask off around the other man, if only so he could let his eyes ask for what his mouth couldn’t; but even when he slipped down into this place inside himself that made him feel small and settled and _okay_ (for now), even then, he knew it was a bad idea. 

Despite all the trust he placed into Deadpool’s hands, he knew that his face was simply too much to let him have. Peter couldn’t have his secret, his identity, fall like quicksand through Deadpool’s careless fingers. He felt much more secure letting him have this, have his body. Peter trusted him far more with _that_ than with anything else, because even if he was usually achy and bruised after their rendezvous, he’d always heal. Letting Deadpool know anything other than the curve of his body or the hitch of his breath as he came was a mistake; while Peter was fine risking himself a hundred times over, he would never let anything happen to his loved ones.

“Was that it, baby?” Deadpool’s voice sounded softer now. “Did that help?”

The tone change, like Deadpool was soothing a small child, made him feel just that: like everything would be fine sitting here in his Daddy’s lap, like Daddy would give him what he needed. He wouldn’t let anything get to Peter—not college deadlines, or horrible bosses. Not even the soul crushing pressure he felt to save an entire huge city, night after night.

He felt the urge to cross his arms and hide himself in Deadpool’s chest. He always did, whenever he was shown these little bits of affection in between the cruel and vicious parts of Deadpool. 

Peter let his forehead rest along the cool leather above Deadpool’s collarbone and nodded. He couldn’t fist his hands properly into the material like he wished to, so he let them fall limply into his lap.

Deadpool brushed a sweet kiss along his temple before leaning down to rumble, “I asked you a question,” gruff enough to have Peter shivering.

Peter knew what the true answer was, and he whispered, “N-no,” like a secret into the crease of Deadpool’s neck. “Need m-more.”

One more kiss to Peter’s temple, and then Deadpool was nudging him back, prying him away from his hiding spot. 

A finger crooked under Peter’s mask and tugged up. Peter knew what Deadpool wanted instantly, and his fingers went to roll up his mask to the bridge of his nose. He’d barely gotten it up before Deadpool’s mouth was smashing hard into his. Peter gasped and then it was all clashing teeth and searching tongues and hot, wet heat.

The first time he’d eye’d Deadpool’s scars he’d wondered how they’d feel against his own skin. Since then he’d felt them on nearly every part of his body; rough lips trailing kisses down his shoulder, scarred cheeks grazing the inside of his thighs, calloused hands cupping under his ass.

His favorite was still the feel of them under his own hands as Deadpool kissed into him, biting and sucking and licking into his mouth. Peter let his hands cup the back of Deadpool’s head, fitting into the divots of scar tissue that Peter swore were made for him to rest them there, as he attempted to crawl into him. 

Deadpool pulled back but Peter followed, not quite ready to be done kissing. He felt Deadpool’s chuckle, a quiet, “you really needed this, didn’t you, baby boy,” before his world was tilting and Peter was looking up into the starless, smog-filled sky.

Deadpool had maneuvered him on his back along the stretch of the couch, and was adjusting himself between Peter’s thighs. The cigarette Peter had momentarily forgotten about in the haze of exhilarating kisses drew his attention. It was nearly a stub now, and Peter couldn’t help but feel disappointed that it hadn’t lasted longer. When Deadpool unexpectedly flicked the butt of the cigarette with his thumb and forefinger, causing it to sail across the rooftop, Peter couldn’t hold in his anguished wail.

Whatever depraved, unmentionable things he’d been hoping for were crushed as it flew through the air, over the ledge of the building, and beyond. He didn’t realize he was making little whimpering noises until Deadpool shushed him.

“Doesn’t Daddy always give you what you need?” he asked, drawing Peter’s attention with the hand that had been holding the cigarette as it trailed up his calf, along his thighs, to pet along his stomach right above his waistband. “When have I ever neglected you?”

Peter gasped as the heel of Deadpool's hand ground painfully into his cock. He’d been turned on for so long, and now he was wet and hard and _ready_ , _so ready_ . If Peter wasn’t already so far deep into the place in his mind that surrendered to Deadpool's control, where his mouth didn’t sass back and he just listened obediently to his Daddy, he’d argue he could make a list of all the things, honestly, that Deadpool hadn’t given him. But the second part of what he’d said was true—Peter had never come out of their encounters unsatisfied. Even if he didn’t get what he _wanted,_ Deadpool always gave him what he needed, without fail.

Peter allowed himself a tentative lift of his hips into the hand on his dick and, when Deadpool didn't pull away, he allowed himself to do it again. It felt good to be touched by a hand that wasn’t his own. Deadpool hadn’t been spotted around New York in a while and Peter… honestly didn’t have time for anyone else.

He barely had time for _himself_.

A quick warm shower in the morning featuring fast, firm tugs was all he had time for most days, and when he _did_ have time for more, sprawled out on his bed and sticky from lube, well. The curl of his soft, smooth fingers just wasn’t the same, and twisting his nipples couldn’t trick his brain into imagining rougher hands. 

So he would keep the news on, keep an ear out with his sources as he slowly, torturously burned from desire. 

Even through his suit, the hitch of his hips upwards into Deadpool’s hand felt so good that Peter was close to coming already. He should have been embarrassed by the fact he could come from something as simple as this, but honestly he was too busy chasing that pleasurable, sating release to care. It had been too long, way too long, and Peter’s hand fisted in the back of the couch as he felt that telling build up in his stomach.

But Deadpool, as always, had other plans, and he pulled his hand away at _just_ the right time to stop Peter’s impending orgasm.

Peter let his head fall back along the couch and whined low in his throat.

Deadpool didn’t seem inclined to explain why he’d pulled away so suddenly, but the familiar click of a lighter and the acrid smell of nicotine hit Peter’s senses, and he remembered suddenly what Deadpool had been promising him earlier. 

Peter lifted up enough to see the pack of cigarettes and lighter hit the ground, before another strong wave of smoke was clouding his vision. Without the filter of his mask, the smell was stronger. Peter inhaled sharply, coughing as it suffocated his senses. 

“Now, I rewarded you for telling me what you needed,” _oh_ , Peter thought as he laid back to blink up at the sky, _that’s what that’d been_ , “now lay back and be good for your Daddy. No coming unless I say so, got it?”

Peter nodded before a hard pinch along his inner thigh had him acquiescing quickly, “Yes, Daddy!” He relaxed back, watching Deadpool as he glanced around, looking for something.

“Damn these kids and their electronic _everything_ ,” he complained like a grumpy old man. “What’s a man to use for a fuckin’ ashtray around here?”

Peter barely heard his griping, eyes fixated on the long, burning cigarette in Deadpool’s hands. He watched as the ash accumulated on the tip, and whimpered when it dropped as Deadpool shifted.

The sound drew Deadpool’s gaze back to Peter and he smiled like he had solved a puzzle, like Peter was that especially tricky clue in the Sunday crossword, but that he’d figured it out and filled it in, and could now move on with his day.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter heard him mutter to himself, “that’ll do.”

Deadpool leaned over him and Peter shut his eyes, anticipating a kiss. He jerked as something brushed his lips, something that was _not_ warm skin.

“Hold it there for Daddy,” Deadpool told him as he pushed it past Peter’s lips. “And _don’t drop it._ ”

Peter gulped, and the cigarette now housed between his lips bobbed precariously. The smoke burned as it swirled around his eyes, the smell clogged his nose, and the taste… Peter wanted to gag, wanted to spit it out, but the tone of Deadpool’s voice held no room for argument and so he held it in his lips, eyes near crossed as he watched it.

A bare, scarred hand came back to pat at his cheek in approval.

With his hands now free of cigarettes and gloves they roamed down Peter’s bare chest freely. It was soothing, the attention on his nipples and the caresses down his ribs; for once, Deadpool’s touches weren’t harsh or hurtful, but they couldn’t take his mind off the burning cigarette in his mouth.

Deadpool’s mouth, as if taunting him with its freedom, bit a trail along Peter’s sternum, down his abs, across his navel until it reached the soft skin right above the waistband of what remained of his suit. As he descended each bite got sharper, until Peter was having trouble holding onto the cigarette around his gasps. 

Nails raked red scratches down his stomach before thick fingers hooked over the top of his pants. Deadpool tugged at the fabric determinedly, and Peter nervously shifted to lift his hips to help. His jaw was starting to ache from the stiff way he was holding the cigarette, afraid he would drop it. He was hyper aware of both the ember burning so close to his lips, _and_ of Deadpool’s hands on him, and his brain was cross signaling, careening between focusing and floating. 

But once Deadpool had freed Peter of his pants, leaving him sprawled naked across the couch, he plucked the cigarette from its hold in his mouth and took a deep inhale. 

Peter took a inhale of his own, relieved that he didn’t have to hold it any longer. The cigarette looked much more enticing in Deadpool’s thick, scarred fingers than in Peter’s mouth. An exhale of smoke and a “ _good boy_ ” had Peter melting back against the couch. 

“You’ve been patient,” Deadpool commented. “Patient little spiders get rewarded.”

Peter sighed at the praise, but before he could get excited for his impending reward, he was blindsided by a bright, searing pain across his thigh. Stars sparked across his vision, and his eyes squeezed tight at the white hot sensation striking like lightning against his skin.

It _hurt_ … but not like getting thrown into a building, or like the sick punch of a boot to the gut, both things he’d endured on his many nights of crime fighting. This hurt in an entirely different way, in the best way; the way that flirted with pleasure, shifting and twisting to take up residence in the corners of his mind to allow no other thoughts beyond _Deadpool_ and _pleasure_ - _pain_ and _the_ _beautiful surrender of responsibilities._

As Deadpool brought the cigarette away from Peter’s skin, the sharpness of the pain faded to a dull throb. Until, of course, Deadpool’s finger pressed into the wound. Peter bit his lip against a moan as it lit up again in a fresh wave of pain. 

Deadpool pressed in harsher and growled against his skin, “I want to hear you.”

Peter let his lip slide free from its prison behind teeth, and a tiny whimper escaped. Deadpool, seemingly pleased, soothed the ache moments later with his tongue. And then, too soon, the pain began again on the opposite leg. And then the soothing wetness of Deadpool’s tongue, and then sudden, sharp stings that had Peter crying out, gasping, grasping white knuckled at the couch; again, and again, and again, until Peter’s thighs were mottled with varying degrees of burns. 

Peter lost track of time. He couldn’t think beyond the light, floaty feeling consuming him; like he’d become an untethered balloon drifting higher and higher into an endless, breezy sky. His chest glistened with sweat as it rose and fell, shuddering after a particularly severe burn. He was almost positive Deadpool had gone over a spot more than once, but he was all but _poured out_ across the couch, one arm hanging off the side to brush the floor below, and so his brain didn't allow for such deductive thinking at the moment. His legs were still splayed across Deadpool’s thighs; the man petted at them absentmindedly as he watched Peter, loose limbed and drunk on the continuous highs and lows of pain, behind masked eyes. 

*******

Wade eyed the blissed out Spider-Man lying before him, and then eyed the cigarette, now barely more than a stub of filter and dying ember. He could tell the kid was hitting a limit, one he likely wasn’t even aware of. But he’d played _so_ very nice with his baby boy, keeping the burns to his thighs and hips, and now he _really_ wanted to play a little harder, push a little more.

One more. He could take one more.

He blew across the end of the cigarette, causing the cherry to glow brighter, ready to place one last final kiss against Spidey’s skin. Spidey moaned piteously and shifted his legs away from Wade. The giddiness Wade’d been feeling left him in a wash of agitation and he let his thumb fall to one of the worse burns, pressing _just so_. 

“Don’t be selfish, baby boy,” he frowned at the squirmy spider before him. “I gave you what you needed, now let Daddy have his turn.”

But instead of letting the hot end of the cigarette drag along the skin of abused thighs, Wade’s aim pinned to a far more intimate spot. Apparently his quiet, subdued little spider wasn’t so out of it after all, for he scooted back a bit and whimpered out a defiant, “N-no.”

Wade, hearing the fear in that cracking voice, leaned over to place a dangerous kiss at the sensitive, red skin of a mistreated hip bone.

“Daddy wouldn’t give you anything he knew you couldn’t handle,” Wade reassured in a voice he made sure sounded authoritative and convincing. And, well, it was _mostly_ true. This was new to both of them, and he certainly didn’t _know_ Spidey’s limits but he was pretty sure, considering everything they’d done beforehand, that this would only add to their fun. At the very least, it would add to _his_ fun.

He just _really, really_ wanted to see the reaction of the languorous little one laid out in front of him. Wade just wished he could see glazed eyes and blown pupils instead of shiny white lenses. But Wade wasn’t willing to completely reveal what was hiding under his mask, either, so _fair’s fair._ Even if he was pretty sure what was hiding under _that_ mask was sugar and spice and everything nice.

Perhaps that’s why Wade felt such a compulsion towards this shitty city, filled with even more shitty people. Why he felt the need to keep bothering Spidey, to keep poking at his resolve. Because Wade was none of those things, and so he wanted to study them, learn them, and maybe, just maybe, _ruin them a bit._

Wade wrapped a hand under his boy’s knee and forcibly yanked him back in, closing the distance that fearful little shuffle had created between them. He wrapped a hand loosely around the base of Spidey’s hard cock, which hadn’t flagged one bit during their fun and, if anything, was harder and wetter now than before. Distraction firmly in place, Wade didn’t allow anymore time for protests before he was leaning forward and aiming the burning end of the cigarette towards the vulnerable spot between—ah, now _that’s_ the sound he’d been waiting for. 

Wet hiccuping sobs started small but deep; hearing them would have torn at anyone else, would have made them stop. Spidey's testicles were pulled tight to his body in a futile attempt to escape the torment, and he wailed as Wade leaned down to lave at the burn he'd placed on tender, wrinkled skin. The plaintive cries unleashed something ugly in Wade; he changed his mind about being finished and bestowing one final, blistering press to the vulnerable flesh. Spider-Man jerked in his grip, scream choking on harder sobs as Wade ground the cigarette to a finish. He flicked the butt away before leaning forward to envelop that hard, leaking dick with his mouth. 

_Mmmm_ , Spidey tasted like everything Wade had been hoping for when he’d come to the city. Sure, he’d honestly had an accountant thing to take care of, and yes, he may have sought Spider-Man out because it was cancelled, but that had only bumped up his plans for their meeting. Deadpool couldn’t set one _toe_ near New York now without the memories popping up of just who thirsted for him just inside the city line: an eager little Spidey, in dire need of Daddy’s cock.

Wade had tried to stay clear of the web slinger whenever he was in New York… at first, that is. But that red and blue booty kept swinging into his business, and when he noticed how pliant and unfocused he’d gotten that first time Wade had pushed him against a wall… 

There was no way he wasn’t going to find out if that was a random one-off, or the beginning of a beautiful, catastrophically destructive pattern.

Following that curiosity had led him here, with his mouth around the prettiest cock he’d ever laid eyes on, and decidedly _not_ dead like the cat’s forewarned demise implied. Or perhaps he _would_ end up choking on this cock and die anyway. _What a way to go_. He moaned around the hot, thick length at the thought, and cupped smooth, abused balls in his hand. When a moan mirrored his own Wade hollowed out his cheeks in his best impression of a Hoover (which probably wasn’t that great at all—Wade couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly cleaned something, let alone _vacuumed)_ and sucked him down _._

As much as he loved the drawn out prologue, Wade was eager to move along to the next chapter. He pulled off, allowing himself one last rough swipe with the flat of his tongue along the leaking head. He smirked at the deep twitch that went through the body beneath him as he fiddled in his pouch for the stuff no self-respecting Sex Scout left home without. 

Spidey’s breathing was definitely erratic now, Wade noticed with a deep hint of pride, every exhale ending with a tearful whine. 

“I know, honey, I know,” Wade cajoled, clumsily patting at a trembling thigh. “I’m gonna give you what you need, don’t you worry your pretty little arachnid head about _that_.”

He hastily lubed up his fingers, glancing down as some dripped messily onto the upholstery below. Oops. Well, nothing this couch hadn’t seen already. He continued on unperturbed to nudge at a leg until it was shakily brought up into a bent position, allowing him more access to let a slicked up hand wander. 

His spider babe let out a breathy, needy little moan as fingers caressed over the tight little hole Wade was beyond eager to get into. Impatient, even, and he couldn’t help but skip the teasing, easing a finger right inside. 

The glide of his overly-lubed fingers helped, but it was still a tight fit. Wade wondered if the little superhero touched himself like this at home, or if he left this part for their encounters. The thought inspired naughty, wicked ideas, but he filed them away for later. Wade often got caught up in his own head, but right now he needed to focus. 

He continued with the task at hand, easing the finger in farther, letting his baby boy acclimate to the stretch. Wade didn’t have the slim, delicate fingers of pretty boys, no, he had the thick, scarred hands of a killer, and one finger could easily rival on the stretch of _too, too much_ if not careful. 

Wade could admit that he liked a lot of things more than he should. He liked the blaze of a detonated blast, and the smell of freshly spilt blood, and the feeling of accomplishment after he’d rid the world of one more useless piece of scum. 

And he liked the feel of this man under his fingers. He liked the taste of his tears, and he liked the sound of cries that almost-but-didn’t-quite scream _this is too much._ He liked the knowledge that he gave Spider-Man something no one else could provide, and he _especially_ liked the idea that, out of all his do-gooder super-friends, it was _Deadpool’s_ touch he sought. There was nothing Wade reveled in more than hearing the wind whistle behind him, only to turn and see New York’s finest hero landing standing there, waiting for Wade to ruin him.

And Wade—Wade _loved_ ruining him. Like any friendly, neighborhood sadist, he got off on the pained moans and sobbing cries. But even that exquisite pleasure paled in comparison to the knowledge of how much his boy beneath him yearned for it; body and mind going soft as he let Deadpool bring him to that space he so desperately craved but could only visit while in his care. As he lay back and surrendered and let Deadpool take him apart with pain, and with pleasure.

So, Wade wasn’t rough right away with his fingers. No, he made sure Spidey’s hole was stretched and sloppy, dripping even more lube on the red fabric filthily, before adding more fingers and curling them in search. Wade smirked as Spidey cried out, and the arm that’d been grazing the floor limply now clawed at his shoulder. _Found it._ He abused that spot just like he’d abused everything else—by letting his fingers brush over it tantalizingly, never _quite_ enough, letting the pleasure build steadily as he continued to stretch him wide enough to accommodate Wade’s sizable girth.

When he deemed Spidey stretched out enough, he removed his fingers and wiped them carelessly on the couch. He couldn’t help but groan deeply at the image the man made laid out before him; glistening with tears, drenched in sweat, dripping with arousal, and, _fuck—_ beautifully marked with Wade’s burns. Wade exhaled sharply through his nose, palming his own ignored cock through the leather. The sight was almost enough to have him coming faster than a teenager after touching a titty on prom night. 

“Please,” his baby boy panted out in a plea, voice barely there from crying, whimpering, screaming out for, well, Wade wasn’t sure exactly how long they’d been at it. The sun wasn’t up yet, so that was something.

Wade crawled up that wrecked, flushed body. He let his forearms rest on either side of that damp face as he hovered over him. Those shiny tears were like a seductive siren’s call, and Wade was powerless to ignore them. Hey, everyone had an Achilles heel, didn’t they? Wade’s just happened to be a beautifully tearful, naked superhero who liked to call him Daddy. 

“ _Mm_.” Wade’s tongue licked along a deliciously salty cheek until it met the edge of the mask. He nuzzled into the damp material as he asked, “Please _what_ , baby?”

“P-please Daddy,” came the barely audible, near incoherent reply. Hips shifted beneath him, and Wade felt the hard press of a leaky, neglected cock glide smoothly across the leather of his stomach. Spidey let out another choked sob, obviously not happy with the lack of friction.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Wade soothed, letting himself have one last taste of those beautiful tears before he was reaching down to adjust himself out of his suit, feeling like it was plenty time for him to bury himself in that tight ass. “Feel what you do to me, baby. I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll be cryin’ for real.” 

He let himself thrust once along the slender body beneath his, cock gliding smoothly against his baby boy’s in a prelude of what was to come. He felt his own moan punch out of him unexpectedly. Fuck, he couldn’t wait. Wade leaned back enough to grab himself, squeezing at the base to help guide his dick into that glorious cave of wonders he’d been dreaming about since their last encounter months ago. The first press was always his favorite; the thrill of the resistance, wondering if this would be the time he wouldn’t fit, until finally he inched past and slid home.

A deep groan and a high pitch keen echoed out together into the empty darkness of the rooftop. Wade didn’t give either of them time to adjust before he just went for it, pulling out only far enough to pound right back in. Another beautiful, passionate wail and his baby boy was wrapping arms around Wade to draw him in closer, practically attacking his mouth. 

Wade thrust deep but slow as they kissed, just enjoying the lazy feeling of being wrapped up in the arms of this beautiful boy. He’d never let himself admit it, but he lived for the existence of these moments. Every time he got a whiff of New York in his circle he volunteered (or demanded, rather) that he be the one to take the gold card; if only to grab at these moments like a parched man would water. 

“Fuck,” Wade rasped against sweet, supple lips before biting down and devouring. He enjoyed the way his baby’s strong arms tightened around him, as if he couldn’t have Wade close enough, and _fuck_ , he was _inside this kid_ and it clearly wasn’t close enough. 

Spidey chased him with swollen, red lips as he leaned back. 

“You know,” Wade said conversationally, voice a little too husky to pull off casual, “I’m doing _a lot_ of the work here. I think it might be baby boy's turn to take care of his Daddy.”

He slipped strong arms under Spidey’s toned, sweaty back and sat them up, swinging them both around so his baby boy was seated in his lap with Wade’s boots flat on the floor and his back flat along the couch in a mock of their position from earlier. Speared on his cock, his wanton little spider groaned and, with hands planted on Wade’s broad shoulders, started to move obediently. 

With each slide down he tightened around Wade like a vice, panting little _ah, ah, ah’s_ into his ear as he moved. They mixed harmoniously with the sounds of Wade fucking into him and the sweet symphony had Wade’s head curving back to rest along the back of the couch in mind-blowing pleasure. His bare hands came up to help guide slim hips. There was nothing quite like the feel of that soft, pleasure-warm skin along the scarred roughness of his own.

At times like these, Wade wished his body didn’t look like a can of spam put through a blender on high speed. He wanted nothing more than to feel all that tempting, smooth skin against his own, free from the barrier of chafing leather. But the weight of his baby boy still felt delightful against his broad chest and he wasn’t willing to lose that to the horrific sight beneath his suit, so it stayed on. No ifs, ands, or butts. He let his hands do the feeling for him, running them over sharp hip bones and rippling back; he continued his exploration until he felt Spidey slowing down, slumping closer onto Wade’s chest with each lift. With a quick assessment, Wade could see his thighs trembling from overexertion. After one more barely-there-lift he slouched onto Wade’s massive chest, exhausted.

“S-sorry,” Spidey apologized plaintively. God, the sight he made. His dick was a deep, blushing red, shiny at the tip, clearly uncomfortably hard; his chest heaved from his attempts to leverage himself off Wade’s massive thighs and even more massive cock. 

He was fucking _beautiful_.

“Daddy’s got you,” Wade promised as his hands slid down, down, down to rest underneath that pert little ass and _lift,_ easy as you please. 

Deceptively slim arms wrapped tight around his neck, and panted breaths warmed the skin under his jaw. Wade groaned, grip slipping, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he was suddenly enveloped in a tight inferno once more.

His arms barely twinged as he continued to lift the limp boy in his arms. He couldn’t stop his hands from kneading the ass in his hands, letting his fingers get close enough to brush where he was spreading his baby wide. He felt the familiar spark in his stomach, like the low-level fire he’d been stoking was rising higher and higher; like he was about to lose control and consume them both.

“Touch yourself for me, baby,” he commanded in a growled whisper along the side of Spidey’s hidden face. “But you _ask_ before you come.”

A frantic nod of agreement against his neck and then an arm was slipping from his shoulders and descending into the space between them. He could hear just how _wet_ his baby boy was, hand squelching obscenely as it wrapped around and started pulling in time with his rising and falling. 

Wade groaned against his temple and tightened his hold, keeping his boy suspended on his cock. It wasn’t the most ideal position, but he could work with it; he pistoned his hips up frantically, and suddenly the boy in his arms cried out as Wade found the spot inside of him and _just. kept. hitting._

“Oh, _ah,_ please, can—!” Spidey’s breathing was so heavy now that his question hitched with each word. “C-can I come?” Wade could feel his hand tugging wildly between them.

“ _N_ _ot yet_ ,” he snarled. Pleasure swirled in him like an impending storm, but he wasn’t quite ready to _break_ yet.

A miserable whine escaped at the harsh refusal but Wade cut it off with a furious, passionate kiss. He couldn’t help biting that full bottom lip until the tang of copper bloomed deliciously on his tongue. A slim arm tightened around his shoulders, baby boy chasing Wade’s lips as he leaned back to lick the blood from them. Wade couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the bloody, panting mouth in front of him.

_Fuck._

“ _Now_ , baby,” Wade ordered against his lips. “Come for me, Spidey, wanna see you fall apart.”

Wade drew himself almost all the way out, head nearly catching on the rim, and then slammed his baby boy down one last time as he thrust up. And that was it; the storm inside him descended with a blinding strike of lightning and a crack of earth-shaking thunder. Pleasure crashed over him and his hold turned bruising as he held those hips flush to his body as he came and came and came inside his submissive little spider. 

*******

Peter ached like hell but the floaty feeling made it hard to care as pleasure continued to wash over him with each forceful thrust. He was content to lay against a warm, leather clad chest and let his body be moved by strong hands and even stronger hips, bouncing him up and down like he was light as a feather. Deadpool was hitting that place inside him that had him seeing stars, and a charge crawled across his skin with each upward thrust. His eyes were clenched tight, and had been since the first, electrifying touch of that spot inside him.

When Deadpool growled, “ _now,”_ Peter came instantly, hand slipping in a blur across his drooling dick. The world blurred in and out in hazy reels of moments: the hot, frantic feeling of fucking himself on Deadpool’s dick, Deadpool taking over, Deadpool biting at his lips hungrily, and finally, allowing him to come. The flashes of memory kept echoing and everything else was hard to keep track of, slipping through his mind like sand through an hourglass. 

The buildup of his orgasm had been so intense it felt like a full body punch; near-painful as his body seized up in pleasure and he came all over his hand, himself, and Deadpool’s stomach. Afterwards he had collapsed on the other man, barely coherent. 

Now, Peter let himself float, enjoying the absolute silence of his muted mind, enjoying the unbothered veil that had draped over him. _This_ was what kept him coming back for more. It wasn’t the _only_ reason Peter kept seeking Deadpool out, but it was the primary one. Somehow the mercenary knew how to turn off Peter’s jumbled, chaotic mind and make him feel safe. So safe. Like he could let go, and the world wouldn’t implode the moment he did. So much responsibility rested on his shoulders, so many lives on the line, and for once he just wanted someone to take care of _him_. 

Deadpool was the only one Peter trusted enough to do that for him.

Peter nuzzled into the warm body beneath him, feeling loose and sleepy. He barely noticed the flagging cock inside him or the stickiness drying on his skin; he was just so _comfortable_.

“Up you get, sleepy spider,” came Deadpool’s soft voice, and Peter winced as he pulled out. He whimpered, not wanting to move from his snug spot, just wanting to submerge himself in this feeling forever. 

Peter felt them tilt sideways onto the opposite (far cleaner) side of the couch, and he cuddled down into Deadpool’s side. A muscular arm came to wrap around him and tug him in closer. There was a shift, and a familiar click, and then an instantly recognizable smell had Peter opening his eyes. Deadpool had somehow freed a cigarette from its pack. It hung effortlessly between his lips as he lit it.

Peter shivered at the image, at the echo of Deadpool’s first cigarette of the evening, and his thighs throbbed in a reminder of what they’d done with it. 

Deadpool blew the smoke away from him this time, and Peter watched as it disappeared into the night before a large hand was cupping his head and bringing it back down to rest down along a solid shoulder. If he hadn’t been wearing his mask the hand would have been carding through his hair. Instead it just stroked back and forth along the crown of his head and, well, that felt pretty nice too, actually.

Peter let his eyes drift closed again, content to float and listen to Deadpool inhale and exhale.

He hadn’t meant to give the lone question floating in his mind a voice, but he wasn’t exactly in his typical state of mind at the moment, and as such his vulnerable side snuck out unguarded.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice soft and tiny into Deadpool’s shoulder.

Deapool’s hand curved down over the back of Peter’s head to rest possessively along his neck. He made a dissatisfied noise as he exhaled smoke, and Peter curled up a little into himself. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it unless he was feeling floaty and safe and small in Deadpool’s arms, but he just wanted to please his Daddy. More than anything, sometimes. 

The hand along his neck squeezed softly, and Deadpool exhaled a mouthful of smoke as he dropped his head to rest along the top of Peter’s. “Not good,” he grunted with a shake of his head. “The best.”

The tiny crack that had started in Peter’s heart repaired itself and nearly exploded in happiness. 

“My best boy,” Peter heard murmured into the top of his head, and he felt warm and safe and happy enough to drift off into his safe place, like curls of smoke in the breeze.


End file.
